But just as she’d begun to shift her weight forward, a rather strong arm had wrapped around her waist.
Her breath left her in a startled gasp as she was hauled—hauled, like an unruly sack of grain—back inside the room while Lord Jason Pembroke’s low, familiar voice rumbled in her ear.
He’d spun her around to face him while anger coursed through her veins. Meanwhile, Lord Pembroke was annoyingly composed despite having just bodily dragged her back from a very graceful escape. “Your brother asked me to keep an eye on you. And here you are, halfway out a window,” he’d said.
“Lord Pembroke.” Georgie glared at him, cheeks hot. “You’re ruining everything!”
“I suspect that’s rather the point.”
She pulled herself out of his grasp and accused him of behaving like a knight errant. The flash of something vaguely like regret shone in his eyes.
Then, his brow arched, green eyes glinting with a faint amusement that only deepened her irritation.
It was then—once she stopped wanting to slap his face and actually looked at him—that she realized just how unfair it all was.
Because he was…handsome.
Not merely handsome in the way most Society men were handsome—well-groomed and stiff—but truly fit. Broad shoulders that actually looked as if he used them, the tailored black coat clinging just slightly too snug over his chest. His dark hair, a shade richer than chestnut, fell across his forehead in a way that looked unintentional but somehow perfect. And those eyes—deep green, sharp and assessing—held hers with an intensity that made her stomach flutter in a most traitorous manner.
Hmm. When was the last time she’d seen him? At least three years ago. The man rarely came to ton events. Why, he’d be devastating if he wasn’t being so annoying at the moment.
They’d had a bit of a discussion, the two of them. She’d explained why she was trying to escape out a window and, surprisingly, Lord Pembroke had seemed to understand. Now he was staring at her as if he already regretted his next words.
“Where are you going after you leave here?”
A flicker of hope flared in her chest. He was speaking of it as if it may still happen.
“To a hack that is waiting down the street.”
“Is your mother in the ballroom?”
“Yes, along with my father…and Henderville.”
Lord Pembroke took a slow step closer, and she felt his heat and the faint scent of clean soap and starch wash over her.
“I cannot allow you to run off into the night alone,” he said quietly. His tone was calm, but it settled over her like an iron weight.
Georgie lifted her chin. “I don’t see why not. I only intend to go home.” Her heart was hammering now, but she refused to let him see her doubt. She would run if she had to.
The small room had gone still around them, the night air cool against her cheeks and the faint murmur of the ballroom in the distance was barely audible through the door.
“I cannot allow you to run off alone,” he finally said. “But I can help you escape.”
Both of Georgie’s brows shot up. “Pardon?”
“I think you heard me. And we must be quick about it.”
Lord Pembroke cracked open the door and glanced out, obviously trying to determine if they had been followed.
Georgie took the opportunity to take another look at him—at the way his coat pulled across his back when he shifted, the faint shadow of stubble on his jaw. Even his hands, large and capable, flexed at his sides as though itching to either throttle her or perhaps drag her back to safety again.
Blast it all.
Why couldn’t her father have chosen him? He was unattached, wasn’t he?
Instead, she was supposed to be delivered into the hands of a man old enough to have attended Vauxhall’s opening night.
Georgie’s lips tightened.
